


serene moon

by orphan_account



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Graphic, Hand Jobs, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It is not uncommon to find the Trapper wandering the fields, nameless and alone, with the moon watching overhead; previously known as Evan Macmillan, he was a man with a family, a future, and a life to live.That doesn't matter anymore. What matters is the hunt: the bloodlust, the roaring in his ears as he crushes those who dare run from him. The smart ones don't try to hide; the dumb ones... well, the traps find them eventually. It fuels him and drives him forward. There is no way out, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He does good work, you could say. It reminds him of what was once home; but this is better.





	serene moon

**Author's Note:**

> lmk if this needs any other warnings

It is not uncommon to find the Trapper wandering the fields, nameless and alone, with the moon watching overhead; previously known as Evan Macmillan, he was a man with a family, a future, and a life to live. 

That doesn't matter anymore. What matters is the hunt: the bloodlust, the roaring in his ears as he crushes the fragile bodies of those who dare run from him. The smart ones don't try to hide; the dumb ones... well, the traps find them eventually. Every time he hears the rusty metal  _ snap _ closed around an unsuspecting ankle, he hears the pleased  _ good, Evan, protect me _ echo in his head, warm and comfortable. It fuels him and drives him forward. There is no way out, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He does good work, you could say. It reminds him of what was once home; but this is  _ better _ .

Gentle moonlight filters through the barren tree branches. Heavy summer air pushes against his lungs and the fine fiber of his mask as he prowls; he doesn't know the name of this place, doesn't care. Maybe once he did, but that was a long time ago. What matters is the kill. The rush of adrenaline when he sees a fragile body, ducking behind rocks and discarded vehicles; the heady, coppery smell of blood on grass; the screams of pain as his traps dig into frail flesh.

In the distance, a raven flaps into the sky; one, two more follow it. He raises his head and swivels it in that direction.

Already?

_ Perfect _ .

He sets off, a rusty trap clutched tightly in one hand, massive shoulders unmoving as he stalks forward through the grass fields. The adrenaline of the hunt already pumps through his veins, blurring the edges of his vision with red, while simultaneously sharpening his focused gaze. He pauses and takes a moment to set the trap on the ground and prepare it. As he stands, he admires it: a work of art, the trap was forged himself in the bowels of the MacMillan estate, carefully designed to capture anything that set off its hair-trigger alarm. Even now, years later, it worked like a beauty. 

It's beautiful and functional, and the epitome of what he was created to do. Kill.

Before the unwitting wanderer could move too far past the point of disturbance, he ducks around a massive piece of abandoned farm machinery and prowls ahead, scanning the brush; it's dark, but it always is. He's ready.

Something chimes in the distance; the sound is far away, and mystical, but very clear; an alert. It pierces through the air, and he turns around, alert.

It is at that moment that a cold, cold knife is plunged into his shoulder, and he  _ yells _ in outrage, hurt, and confusion.

He whips around and is confronted with a man, broad shouldered and tall. The movement tears the knife from his flesh, and blood--- his blood,  _ his blood _ , that's his--- drips from the tip of the blade. The Shape.

He growls. The Shape spends no time on such things, his mask betraying no emotion, but simply raises the knife again, crowding his space, slashing at his neck. He raises his cleaver and blocks the blow with his forearm, using the momentum to shove the blade aside and aim a kick at the Shape's groin. It hits, and a gush of wind forces itself from the Shape's mouth in one great gust, and he ducks over---

\---he swings with another blow, but aimed with the back of the cleaver to the base of the Shape's head--- but it doesn't matter, because his body twists as he straightens, and he dodges around the Trapper's blade. The Shape steps close, too close, and thrusts the knife down and across the Trapper's mask.

It finds its mark.

The world freezes.

His vision blurs: the Trapper moves, hissing, slashing at the Shape--- Michael Myers, that's his name, the name he was born with, the name he will  _ die with _ \--- with his massive cleaver, heavy handed and stained with blood--- the Trapper moves, furious. Enraged.  _ Protect me, Evan--- _

\---he roars, wordless, and Myers ducks and dodges; the Trapper cannot keep track of their twisting dance. 

The grass of the fields bend and are crushed below their feet. Above, the moon watches, serene in her slumber.

The Trapper's ( _ protect me, Evan, protect me, Evan, Evan, Evan--- _ ) cleaver cuts Myers' shoulder, across his chest, and blood wells from the jagged cut. The cleaver sings: it's almost sated. More.  _ More _ . Protect me, Evan---

Myers is noiseless as he returns the Trapper's fury with blows of his own, too fast to keep track. He is a blur. Cuts bloom blood across the Trapper's body, but none hit his mask. They twist and turn, slashing and kicking. Their breathing grows laboured. The moon watches.

It is the Trapper ( _ protect me, Evan _ )  who stumbles first.

He throws himself at Myers, cleaver swinging in one massive blow to Myers' neck. Myers narrowly dodges the blow; the cleaver's ragged teeth digs into Myers' blank mask. The fibers of the mask snap, but don't  _ break _ .

The moment allows Myers the chance to duck down and kick at the Trapper's knee; he swears, falling, and Myers brings the kick up to collide with the Trapper's chin. The Trapper's head snaps backward with a sickening crack, and he slumps back onto the grass.

A heavy weight settles on his abdomen. Cold steel pushes against his throat.

A bead of blood wells around the blade.

The Trapper's cleaver lies to the side, abandoned on the ground. He avoids looking at Myers' empty eyes and  _ reaches _ , squirming---

\---only for the cleaver to be kicked away, spinning into the grass with a sigh he could feel in his bones.

His hips buck upwards, hands lunging for Myers' arm, but the blade only pushes harder, sharper. The threat sends a shiver down his spine. The Trapper falls back onto the ground, panting, hands settling to grip Myers' wrist until his knuckles go white. Myers' other hand grabs one of the Trapper's wrists, and  _ pulls _ with a strength he didn't expect: Myers rips the Trapper's hands away and pins it, forcefully, to the earth beside his head.

Evan growls.

Each of them pause, taking stock of the situation. The adrenaline still sings through his veins, violent and fierce. 

Myers makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat, his hips moving in a circular motion. It's odd, foreign. The Trapper freezes, calculating. Myers sinks backwards, knife still pressed firmly to the Trapper's jugular, and rolls his hips forward and down,  _ pressing _ fiercely on the Trapper's clothed groin. It sends a spark of something foreign up his spine, and the Trapper gasps. Pleasure. He finds himself---

" _ What, _ " he hisses, wrenching at Myers' forearm, desperate. They were matched in strength, height--- but Myers had him at a disadvantage, here. He's never felt more human or more vulnerable than now.

It's been a long time since he was Evan Macmillan: human, weak. The thought chills him, and stills his protests. Michael--- no, Myers,  _ the Shape _ \--- takes it as assent, and he grinds down rhythmically, and Evan ( _ oh, no, Evan _ ) lifts his head against the pressure of the knife, but the scene is hauntingly familiar. It's been a very long time.

"Myers," he grunts. Myers doesn't reply, only maintaining his agonizingly slow undulations. Is this what the Entity wanted? Is it? What of the fight?

Blood wells on the knife blade.

He wants to choke.

The cold, hard earth presses into his back and Evan sighs. Myers lowers his head, breath heavy with the exertion of the fight and---

Evan bucks upwards, desperate. Desperate for  _ what _ , he can't quite pinpoint, but the pressure of Myers' hips was too much but not enough at the same time. His veins sing and call out for more, more,  _ more _ . Myers grunts at Evan's movement and his grip on Evan's wrists lessen. Evan's lungs burn and he realizes he's been holding his breath.  Michael Myers may be strong: but Evan MacMillan was built for strength.

His shoulders are broad, scarred, muscled. The wound from Myers' surprise attack burns at his rough handling, but he ignores it. He can't pay attention to it now.

Evan surges forward, curling inwards and knocking Myers off balance. Myers makes a noise of surprise--- not quite a grunt, not quite a growl, but something animalistic and in between. The Shape pushes forward, eyes dark in the white pits of the emotionless mask. Evan finds himself grinning even as his massive hands lunge for Michael's hips and jerk him onto Evan's lap.  The surprise lasts for a good second longer than Evan expected.

"Leave the mask on," Evan says, and he imagines that if he could see Michael's eyebrows they would have rose at the commanding,  _ demanding _ tone of voice. Michael's knife, shining red with Evan's blood, falls to the ground with a soft thud.

They don't kiss.

Evan breathes in and tries to undo the buttons of Michael's coveralls, but the buttons are too small, his hands too big, and his anticipation too much to handle. The third time a small, shining piece of shit button slips through his grasp, Evan just grabs the coveralls and  _ tears _ . Michael makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort, but it's quiet, and he inhales sharply the second Evan runs his hands down his chest. It's pale and unscarred, but muscled. He's lean: smaller than Evan expected.

He scrapes down Michael's abdominal muscles, one hand tweaking a nipple as the other paws at Michael's groin.  _ Now. Now now now. _

Michael's thighs are twitching with Evan's ministrations, but he gives no other verbal indication of his arousal. His breath falls heavily, and he leans forward as Evan wraps a hand around Michael's shaft. Gently, so gently, Michael's forward presses into Evan's shoulder.

They make an odd picture.

It probably hurts, there's no lube, and Evan isn't gentle, but Michael doesn't complain, only breathes hard into Evan's skin as Evan pumps and twists and  _ groans, _ too loud in the echoing silence of the realm. Michael rocks in place, hips moving and making small circles. Evan's shoulder burns.

He's disappointed when Michael comes all over him in hot spurts, faster than he expects: he hadn't been ready, really, he had wanted to draw it out--- see what happened to the Shape if pushed to the brink. Michael hadn't made a damned sound.

(In the back of his mind, Evan thinks of where they are, of what the Entity wants from them. This can't be it. The Entity isn't infallible: she couldn't plan for everything. She  _ tries _ , but her creations always had flaws and little hiccups. The cold dirt still clinging to Evan's back is a constant reminder of where they are.)

"Myers," Evan pants, and Michael seems all too willing to return the favour: he carries himself off of Evan's lap but kneels between his legs, the ruined front of the coveralls flapping unceremoniously with the movement. Michael's hands--- they're rough and large. They're a worker's hands, Evan notes, watching Michael grab at his overalls' straps and  _ pull _ . They give way, and the top of his overalls, now stained with Michael's come, fall away. It's... foreign to be bared to someone with his heavily scarred barrel chest. It isn't pretty in any way. Michael doesn't even pause to consider the aged lacerations on his skin, beyond one hand bracing itself on his pectoral. His shoulder still screams in pain, but when Michael shoves the rest of his overalls away to grab his dick---

\---Michael isn't... isn't  _ good _ at this, his grip is too tight to be pleasurable, his rhythm too jerky.

It takes some doing: Evan wraps his hand around Michael's, giving affirmative or negatory grunts when Michael finds a sensitive spot or is too rough or gentle. Evan's chest strains with the effort of staying still, of not bucking up into Michael's hands.

The world slows down: the moon remains unchanging in the sky. In the distance, a crow cackles.

"Good, good," he whispers, groaning, and Michael picks up on his cues, twisting his hand just  _ right. _ He comes with a low gasp, seeing white--- such an unfamiliar sensation, now. It's been so long, he feels...

Michael stares at the come on his hands, unmoving. With strange, jerky movements he wipes it off on his coveralls.

The Trapper pushes the Shape away and lunges to grab his cleaver. The Shape doesn't stop him. The Shape stands, bends to pick up his knife, and regards the Trapper as he does up the overall strap: the world returns to its normal state. The unearthly silence of the Entity's realm echoes in the Trapper's ears.

They stare at each other, come-stained and haggard.

The Trapper leaves and doesn't look back.


End file.
